


Our Time Will Come

by anakuya



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexual Deacon, Demisexuality, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Reunions, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:26:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anakuya/pseuds/anakuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic has been abandoned lol: Sole's been missing for two and a half years, running from the decisions she had to make for the good of the Commonwealth. After tracking her for months at a time, Deacon is tipped off about a savage new opponent collecting caps in the Combat Zone. When Deacon finds her, he's determined to never let her out of his sight again. A slow burn following a quest for redemption, a desire for what can't be attained, and the terrible puns of a cheeky Deacon. Major spoilers for the main story of Fallout 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She's Got a Mean Right Hook

He’d heard the rumors.

He had listened to the whispers among shady patrons nursing their liquor in the back of Dugout Inn, nonchalantly sipping his own cloudy drink while undercover.  
It had been two and a half years since the extermination of the Institute.

Two and a half years since he drank in Charmer’s expressionless face while staring at the ground as it erupted into smoke and ash. That was his first day with Charmer in which he didn’t have a witty remark or poor pun for her. He’s seen it all – anguish, fear, admiration, determination, amusement, even a hint of something cloudy in her eye when he caught her staring at his back for a moment too long.

This – this was different. He knew what to do with all those emotions, how to handle them (well, except for maybe the last one). But watching her kill hundreds of people, years of research, and her own son with a face completely devoid of emotion – what are you supposed to do with that? How do you comfort someone who doesn’t feel anything at all? It’s been two and a half years since he sat on the dusty steps of Old North Church while the sun cast a sickly orange hue on the horizon, waiting for her to arrive for their meeting with Des. Charmer never showed.

Deacon’s been following the rumors of her whereabouts, tracking her through small towns to bandit camps, from speakeasy gambling dens to the Boston Harbor. He’s never found solid evidence of her location though – maybe an empty Nuka Cola, the lip of the bottle still damp, or the lingering tang of gun powder.

However, the moment Deacon walked into the Combat Zone, he knew she was here. No one except Charmer is capable of bringing such energy into a room, such electricity down his spine.

The building was loud and full of energy. To his left and right ghouls and town folk exchanged caps. The stringed lights and naked bulbs cast a hazy glow, streaming through curtains of cigarette smoke. Deacon assumed the lack of light was on purpose, allowing addicts and gang members to ride their highs in peace.Deacon made his way down the stairs toward the brightly illuminated pit, hood hanging low over his eyes, sunglasses still balanced on the bridge of his nose, hands tucked into his pockets. As he got closer to the pit, his pace slowed but his heart quickened.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen anyone look so lonely. Care for some company? Couple ‘a caps and I’m all yours for the night.” A young woman purred, falling into step beside Deacon. He looked over to find her thin as a rail with stringy brown hair. Her pretty face sang songs of mischief.

“Maybe later, sweet thing.” Deacon flashed a smile in the hooker’s direction. Deacon almost strode off when he grabbed the woman’s bony arm and spun her to him.

“Change your mind already? I can’t say I’m disappointed.” She drawled out every word smooth as honey.

“Who’s in the ring tonight?”

“Oh.” Her brow furrowed as she thought of the Zone’s schedule. “Against the Blue Devil? Some new girl. She’s s’posed to be real pretty with a hard hammer fist. Heard she might give the Devil a run for their money. Too late to place bets though. The fight’s about to start.” At that, Deacon turned to the pit and could’ve sworn he was looking at a ghost.

She walked into the ring, brushing her taped knuckles with her fingertips. She looked just like he remembered her if not a bit more gaunt, threatening. From his angle he could only make out her profile. She had the same tan, freckled skin, same dirty blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, same strong jaw and slightly arched nose.  
She was silent but her face spoke volumes. She looked like the Wrath of God Himself.  
\--  
“You betting that she has a chance against the Blue Devil?” Deacon inquired.

“Honestly, she’s too little of a thing. The Blue Devil has some good stats. Hasn’t lost a round since Kenny’s birthday and that was three weeks ago. Almost pity the scrawny thing – our Devil’s gonna take her out in seconds.” Scrawny thing? Sure, Charmer had lost a little weight but he’d hardly call her scrawny.

Then, the bell sounded, Charmer swung a right hook, and Deacon understood that his Charmer was the Blue Devil. Her scrawny opponent was down in seconds. Charmer didn’t make a show of it, simply knocking the girl out quick and vicious, but it was clear she was the fan favorite.

“The Blue Devil smites another victim! In next is Rudy Volano! Place your bets now and we’ll begin in a moment folks!” The announcer bellowed while Charmer readjusted her tape and tightened her ponytail.

Match after match Deacon watched, mesmerized. He soaked in every swipe of her leg, every elbow, every punch and grapple. She moved fast and was clever as a fox. She never taunted her victims but made sure to put on a show for the gamblers. Four matches in and the Devil began to look a bit winded. She had a welt swelling on her forearm and a cut on her temple. She chucked her zip-up hoodie and now only wore a black elastic sports bra and loose, baggy joggers that stopped at her ankle. More than a few men eyed her with a primal hunger. Deacon wanted break their kneecaps.

“Alright folks! We’re about to close up shop on our matches tonight!” Boos erupted from the crowds but caps were flowing unlike anything he’d ever seen. These gamblers knew the routine. They were ready to go all in for a final shot at a healthy stash of caps. “Now there’s no need for that! Our Devil here has been giving us quite the show but perhaps it’s time we ruffle some feathers, eh?”

Charmer paced in the ring, rubbing at her knuckles. A nervous tick. An anxious tick.

“We’ve got a treat tonight. Our good friend Grave seems to have found his way back to the ring! After nursing a broken jaw for weeks, Grave is…” But Deacon had stopped listening. He only watched Charmer and the confusion that flickered on her face for no more than a moment. She quickly replaced all emotions with a mask of disinterest but Deacon could feel her worry. As final bets were made, Grave walked into the arena, facing Charmer. Deacon understood why she was worried.  
Grave must have been about six foot on a good day and looked to weigh about 190 pounds but it wasn’t his muscle or size that made Deacon sick. It was the look of pure hatred on his face.

Grave’s black eyes were set deep in his skull, his ruddy skin like a melting candle over bone. Charmer stared right back with disinterest. The bell rang and Grave smiled at Charmer, his teeth black and riddled with holes.

The two circled for the first portion of the fight before Charmer tucked herself into a small space beneath Grave’s arm in an attempt to hit him in the ribs. Grave deflected her with expertise and countered her move with a swipe of his feet, which she avoided. The couple repeated this system for a minute or so. The fight could have almost been coined as a dance had Grave not bled aggression.

Soon, the two were both taking and giving hits. Charmer would take an elbow to the eye and Grave a knee to the stomach. Deacon began to think that Charmer might get out of here unscathed when Grave knocked her to the ground and kicked her in the stomach _hard_.  
\--  
Charmer’s vision went white with pain while Grave kicked her once, twice, and pulled back for a final blow when she swept her legs out and dragged Grave to the ground with her. He cried out in surprise, all hints of amusement gone. She ignored the throbbing in her eye, the blood in her mouth, the unbearable pressure of cracked ribs and slid behind Grave, taking him in a choke-hold.

Grave didn’t even have time to react in the three seconds it took Charmer to cut off the blood to his brain. She should keep him there, keep her arms around his neck until his brain forgets to tell his heart to keep beating, his lungs to keep breathing… but when Grave goes limp in her arms, the announcer pulls her from the ground and she is surrounded with praise.

He raises her arm for the crowd, congratulating the bettors on their picks and encouraging the losers to come back tomorrow for another round. All Charmer can focus on is not passing out right there from the pain in her torso.  
\--  
Deacon studies the Blue Devil critically. While the crowd around him erupts into praise and drunken awe, he can’t help but watch as bright red stripes blossom beneath the sweat on her side. Broken ribs. Deacon feels sick. What is she doing here? What is she thinking? Isn’t it easy enough to get killed in the Commonwealth without advertising yourself as a human punching bag?

The crowd begins to disperse and Deacon makes his way for the doors.


	2. That Game is Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon and Sole reunite.

Charmer staggers out of the ring and into the back offices. By the mercy of God there aren’t too many drunken patrons looking to fuck. She’s not sure that she could scare them off anyway. Okay that’s a lie, she could crack their skulls with a hammer fist to the ear. Still, she was exhausted.

Charmer barely pulled on her ratty sneakers and jacket without passing out. She didn’t even bother fishing for a stimpak in the office drawers. She wasn’t confident she could bend over without vomiting up her organs.She snatched up the bundle of caps off the desk and tumbled through the back doors and into the cold, damp Commonwealth. The autumn air was brutal, chasing her down alleyways on her way back to the little apartment building near Bunker Hill. She had made it four blocks before she staggered down a quiet alley to vomit in solitude. Four blocks before a melt down? Not a bad distance in her book.

The little she had eaten earlier in the day splashed onto the cracked concrete. Where she had no bile to throw up, she threw up blood instead. She braced herself against the brick wall with one hand, the other on her stomach. She shuddered with exhaustion, legs shaking beneath her weight. Oh God, oh God, shit shit shit. Blood continued to run down her chin and tears ran down her cheeks out of pain. At least that’s what she told herself. All too sudden a hand brushed her forearm and she had her gun pointing at the man’s silhouette. He spoke gently to her, but she heard none of it. The momentum it took for her spin at the figure and point her gun sent her on her ass and the handgun went off.  
\--  
“Shit!” Deacon’s voice rang out over the noise of Charmer’s firing gun. “Easy, easy! C’mon there’s no need to be so dramatic.”

Deacon could feel the panic rolling off Charmer despite the night being pitch dark. She pointed her gun but a different kind of tension began to fill her bones.

“What?” She asked shakily, unsure.

“You never really crossed me as the type to shoot first, ask questions later. Maybe my investigative skills aren’t so polished after all.”

“How did you find me?” 

“C’mon. I could use a Nuka Cola and from the looks of it you could use a stimpak. Or twenty.” Deacon outstretched his hand to Charmer as if they had been partners just yesterday. She put away her firearm and accepted Deacon’s help, relying a little too much on him to get herself to her feet, worrying him. She’s never been the dependent type. 

“You gotta place or do we need to get creative?” It was too dark and Charmer was too hurt to travel for long. He also didn’t doubt that there was more than one pair of eyes on the couple right now after all the ruckus they caused. 

With some shaky directions from Charmer, the two trudged through back alleys and destroyed buildings until they found themselves in front of a squat apartment. The pair hastily entered, eager to get out of the open streets. Deacon locked the deadbolt behind him. The apartment was small and dusty. The floorboards were pulled up and the wall paper was peeling back, revealing holes in the wood. Deacon helped Charmer over to the only couch, which was littered with tears and stains.

“Stay here.” Deacon rummaged through his backpack, the only light coming from a short-wicked candle and a camping lamp, bringing out a stimpak, a bottle of water, and rubbing alcohol. 

“Don’t move.” Deacon leaned over Charmer, his body shielding her from the cold air that seeped between the walls. He jabbed the needle into her arm, and after a spark of discomfort, Charmer released a sigh of relief. Deacon began to work on cleaning the cut on her temple.

“You make a habit of getting the shit kicked out of you? ‘Cause Hell if I knew that was an option of release during my bouts of self-loathing you’d find me in the ring every night!” Damn him if he wasn’t a little angry, a little scared, and a whole lot bitter. Her jaw clenched and she met his eyes. Nothing warm there. 

“Have you considered yoga? I heard that really gets rid of the tension. But I guess if you’re looking for caps you could try selling an hour of your time on the streets. You’d get some very eager investors from the Combat Zone.” He’s talking too much. He’s too fired up.

“Why did you find me? So you could insult me? Or is that just a bonus?” She spoke monotone. She spoke in the same way she had after bidding goodbye from the rooftop of which she’d watched her son get blown up from. Deacon put down his rag and sat back on his heels. His eyes roamed over the bruises that started at her waist and snaked over her breast, hidden by the thick black band of her sports bra. 

“Where have you been?” Deacon asked, eyes still focused on the labored rise and fall of her chest.

Charmer was too aware of his eyes on her naked skin, now purple and tender. She tried to calm her breathing.

“There wasn’t anything left for me after…” The Institute. “…my work with the Railroad. So I left. Needed to do something else for a while.” The stimpak was wearing off and her chest hurt. High impact underwear is great for mobility – not so great for broken ribs. Deacon must have spotted her discomfort and eyed the band around the base of the constricting material. Charmer’s face heated. Nothing like not seeing someone for two and a half years only to have them strip you bare. “Do you mind getting the scissors off the table? I mean I would get them I just can’t reach them and you’re closer so I thought –“ She rambled, fear gripping her at the thought of him ridiculing her, rejecting her.

“Not even back together for two hours and you’re already trying to get me to strip you? C’mon Charmer I knew you pined after this body for months, watching me bend over every chance you got but this seems a little desperate.” Deacon teased her, easing the tension the only way he knew how.

“You know me, Deac, can’t hardly pass up an offer…” Charmer began to counter his remark but was interrupted with a wheezy cough. She tried to hide the wince that followed, she really did. 

Deacon dropped the joke and snatched the scissors from the table and snipped the bottom band of the bra. A new sliver of purpling skin was revealed but Deacon kept his eyes on his hands, the couch, anything but the woman in front of him. Charmer immediately exhaled a large breath, no longer being strangled by her clothes. “How about we save this conversation for over coffee and a bagel, huh?” Deacon laid a thick, ratty blanket over Charmer and plopped down onto the cushioned chair adjacent to the couch. Just as he began to nod off, he heard her raspy voice.

“Thanks for looking for me, Deacon.”  
\--  
Deacon dreamed of black teeth, riddled with holes. He could feel Grave’s breath on the back of his neck as he threatened to eat Deacon, tear at his skin and rip away his façade layer by layer. Charmer stood outside the cage, placing bets and taking hits of jet. She watched as Grave sunk his teeth into Deacon’s naked shoulder, tearing his flesh off the bone but instead of blood and muscle beneath, only black tar and oil swirled. He felt himself rip and tear while he watched Charmer laugh, her teeth white and hair done up like a 2077 catalog model’s. He could hear her voice, feel the vibration of her laugh which grew into a pained moan. Her laugh turned raspy and instead of exuding amusement she exuded pain. Deacon’s eyes shot open. 

Charmer squirmed on the couch, face contorted in discomfort. Her blanket still lay over her but the pillows lay on the floor. Her hand was clutching at her chest as if she could pull the air out that was trapped in her lungs. 

Deacon shot from his chair and dug through his pack for another stimpak. Her pained voice rasped through the air and he squabbled to her side, sticking the needle into her neck. She winced and then relaxed, eyes opening. In the grogginess of waking up, Charmer stared at Deacon with skepticism, confusion. She hoisted herself up, holding the blanket to her chin and gathered her surroundings. Late dawn streamed through the curtains and stimpaks and bottles littered the floor. 

“I know it must be hard to wake up to a face chiseled from marble but we all must fight in our daily battles.” 

“Get over yourself.” Charmer tried to lace some fire into her speech but nothing could hide the amusement in her eyes.

Deacon rose to his feet and took in his surroundings in the daylight. Caps were strewn across the rotted dining table as were some plasma guns and her pipboy. In the kitchen were cans of beans and purified water. “Quite the place you got here.” Deacon searched through the cabinets looking for a sorry excuse for breakfast. He walked over to Charmer, setting a box of Dandy Boy Apples and two cans of purified water in front of her, pulling up his own chair.

Charmer knew she must have looked like shit. Her back was sticky with dried sweat, wisps of her hair had pulled out from her pony tail, framing her face. Her eyes alone told Deacon that she hadn’t slept a full night in a week or so, her amber irises now muddy and sockets dark.  
The two ate in a silence that was once comfortable, now awkward. 

“I know this isn’t coffee and a bagel but,” Deacon started and trailed off. 

“Right. I mean, there’s not a lot to say. What do you want to know?” Charmer met his eyes, looking mildly disinterested. 

“I’ll tell you what – a question for a question is how were gonna play this. I’ll start, make it easy. How has no one found you? You’re not exactly unheard of.”

“I just kept moving. Never stayed in one spot for too long, went by different names, cut my hair, played my part depending on who I was with, where I was. It became a sort of game.”

“A game?” Deacon’s chest began to heat and his thoughts started to unravel. “They needed you and you just pissed off! Half the Rail Road is buried, your friends think you went down with the Institute, and Shaun?”

“Shut up.”

“Synth or son you just sent him off to the beaches as if –“ 

“Shut the fuck up Deacon! Who are you to judge me? Who are you to walk into my house and tell me what is and isn’t fair? You know I get that you’re mad but you play the game to win and that game is life.” 

Charmer looked right at Deacon, studying him. He looked the exact same really. Still bald, same sunglasses, same unreadable expressions. He almost looked pleased at her sudden outburst. The following silence is deafening. Deacon watches as the woman in front of his traces her knuckles with the tips of her callused fingers. 

“So what next?” She broke the silence.

“I guess we’ve got some people to see.”

Charmer looked down at her feet, brows drawn. Her breakfast began to sit uneasy in her gut. 

“You didn’t really think I’d come looking for you only to check out? Listen, whether it’s bandits or mudcrabs or thugs in the Combat Zone, we stick together. And if you’re worried about seeing anyone, no one is going to shut you out, everyone out there is rooting for you.” Deacon watched her face intensely, elbows on his knees. 

Charmer sat on the couch for a moment contemplating her options. Her eyes drifted to the dining table, all her winnings strewn across it from the past two weeks. She thought of Kenny's birthday at the Combat Zone just three weeks ago when she was knocked on her ass by a woman with ebony skin. Charmer could still hear her own collarbone crunch beneath the sole of the woman's boot. She tried not to shudder. Then her eyes shifted to the man in front of her, the man who had used to tease her with amusing remarks and whom she trusted and respected. She could still feel his eyes on her as she pressed that button, destroying the Institute. Every person on that roof had watched the ground crumble and burn. Except Deacon. Deacon had watched the destruction of the last slivers of humanity she had. 

"We'd better move out, then." And Charmer looked right at Deacon with steely eyes and her chin high. 

The pair dressed for travel and headed out the door, Charmer thumbing a cap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around! Next Chapter will be up Friday. All feedback is much appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter up on Sunday. All feedback is appreciated!!


End file.
